I was not invited to Hervé Leger by Max Azria — I was not invited to any of Max Azria's three Mercedes-Benz New York Fashion Week shows, which take place at Lincoln Center's largest fashion week venue twice annually, perhaps because last season when I was invited, I asked Max Azria why it is that he books almost…

It's not much! Filings made in association with a $3.75 million lawsuit include the earnings statement of one of the plaintiffs, the Polish supermodel Anna Jagodzinska. That ledger tallies gigs for American Vogue, Vogue Paris, and an H&M campaign.

In September of 2007, it was reported that of all the 101 shows that took place during New York fashion week, one third employed zero models of color. Since then, we've tried to track diversity on the runway every season.

Possible reasons Fern Mallis looked so dang heartbroken at the Hervé Leger show: 1. The lights were hurting her eyes. 2. Max Azria strangled her puppy with a yard of industrial-strength elastic. 3. She was looking for black models.

Max Azria's shows tend to have a few defining features: a flirty aesthetic, a neutral palette of fabrics, and — for the past umpteen seasons — an almost all-white cast of models. Yesterday, I asked him why that is.

Lindsay Lohan is apparently no longer welcome publicity for designers. The ankle-braceleted starlet has been — horrors! — banned from borrowing clothing by most fashion houses, according to one tipster. Lohan has been clothing herself by buying things. [E!]

After tracking diversity on the runways for several seasons, we took off last September because we thought the fashion industry was finally coming to its senses. Models of color were getting booked! How disappointing, then, to tally this season's numbers.

BCBG's Max Azria hails from the coastal country of Tunisia, and there was a Mediterranean, oceany-vibe in his Spring 2010 collection, shown today at NYC's Bryant Park. Green, blue and foamy white fabrics drip from models in a gallery, ahead.

Falling on the runway is my biggest fear. The bruises to ego and ankles. The flashbulbs. The awkwardly extended hands from the front row. The sick sensation of single-handedly bringing everything to a stop.